


Two Nights, Drinking

by prairiestar



Category: Morrissey (Musician), Music RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Depression, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Marijuana, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 02:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7827211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiestar/pseuds/prairiestar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1991, Morrissey and his original solo band are touring North America. Things have changed for Alain since a few years earlier. Shameless rockabilly band bros smut, with some character development as a minimal framing device.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Nights, Drinking

1988

It’s one of those nights. Spencer is passed out on the floor, and Gary thinks it’s hilarious to draw on him. Only no one can find a pen, so one of the girls whose flat it is gets an eyeliner pencil and Gary tugs and wrestles Spencer out of his shirt and scrawls “WANKER” in sloppy, drunken letters across his chest. 

Alain watches, smiling faintly. Gary breaks the point off the pencil with his scribbling, and the other flatmate, clever lass, produces a tube of lipstick and hands it to Alain, giggling, telling him to have a go. So he breathes, focuses, summons his sense of balance and coordination and knee-walks across the floor to Spencer’s side.

He tries to write something, then forgets what it is he’s supposed to be writing. When he looks up to ask for input he finds Gary and the two girls in a squirmy pile, which is impressive even for Gary. 

“Bravo, Gaz!” Alain declares admiringly. Gary, his mouth busy, snakes a hand out of one of the girl’s blouses to flash a triumphant thumb’s up sign. Then it’s back to work.

Alain’s not particularly put out by Gary’s monopoly on the female company. He’s too drunk and sleepy to achieve much of anything anyway. Poor Gaz, the girls have ganged up on him. I should save him, thinks Alain, if I were any kind of friend I’d try to rescue him, but he’s sinking into warm, buzzing sleep and pulling Spencer’s arm close to him as a pillow. Good old bedtime Spencer, warm as a duvet and a good deal softer than the couch cushions look. A fine bedfellow, just so long as he doesn’t throw up.

In the morning, Gary’s got one girl furious and the other sniggering and because he can’t remember either of their names. Spencer looks bleary and stiff, pursing his lips in annoyance as he scrubs at the marks on his chest. They all reek of beer. The boozy warmth of last night has dissipated and it’s time to make themselves scarce. They’ve got another gig at another pub in less than five hours, equipment to move and Boz to call about borrowing a pedal.

Down on the street, Alain cracks his neck and swings his arms to work the stiffness out. Thinks of Spencer’s cheek pressed in sleep against an unfamiliar floor. Thinks of Gary’s lazy smile. Thinks of this band, and the band before, and all the bands he'll probably start or join and the people he'll play with. And wonders if he‘ll ever find one that feels right, where he can actually make the music he knows he needs to make. How long can he wait for the perfect band? How long before the right one? He shakes his head. That’s when you know you’re depressed, when you’re thinking in Smiths lyrics without even realizing it. He can’t shake the worry, though. Time is passing, he’s writing songs as fast as he can play them but is anyone listening? If they’re not, how would he know? There’s an ache in his chest, it drags on his heart and he doesn’t know why it should choose to settle there now, the day after a good gig on this spring afternoon on the pavement with his mates. But that’s when it comes, and the tears of hopeless anxiety well up and make his vision swim.

“Al?” Gary’s beside him, eyes betraying the concern he hides in his voice. “You feelin’ alright?”

Alain takes a gulp of air, sighs it out heavily and clears the choke of tears away. Embarrassing, when it comes on so fast. 

He flashes a smile, the one that blinds anyone who looks at it. "Yeah, fine. Fine."

 

1991

In California the air is heavy with sunshine and exhaust fumes. At night it cools down, and Alain can feel the cool, wet touch of ocean condensation on the wind. He turns off the hotel air conditioner, opens the windows as far they’ll go and lets the breeze in. 

Gary waits until he’s sure Morrissey and the other lads are settled in their rooms, then makes his way to Alain’s room and knocks on the door with his elbow. His hands are full -- a bottle of tequila dripping from the icebox, two limes and a salt shaker from the restaurant downstairs. 

“Welcome me with open fuckin’ arms!” he commands, grinning. “And take these.” He hands the bottle and salt shaker to Alain, who grins back and moves aside to let him in. Gary makes himself at home, taking over the bed and turning the nightstand into a makeshift bar. He slices limes on top of a pad of hotel stationary and sucks the juice from his fingertips every few moments. Alain watches him work, fascinated by the precise movements of his hands. 

They drink sitting on the floor, doing shots for an hour until the liquor is gone and their lips are tingling and swollen from salt and limes. Gary talks about how much better the band’s gotten since April, and how many girls he’s likely to shag before they cross the Rocky Mountains. But he never goes out after shows. Instead he comes to Alain’s room, sits on the floor and drinks and talks. And each time, he wakes in the morning on a hard hotel mattress with his arm thrown over Alain’s body, their blue jean legs tangled together and their bare feet touching. It feels like the old days in a way, when they crashed together in strange beds out of necessity or laziness. 

The morning before the Berkley show Alain wakes up to the sound of Gary showering, and finds a pot of room service tea on the bedside table with a scribbled note -- “YOURS!” and an arrow pointing to an empty cup. This is how it is sometimes, domestic and comfortable. 

The show in Sacramento is quiet, and doesn’t even sell out. Alain is a bit tired afterwards, but it’s their last night in California so they celebrate. Boz and most of the roadies set up camp in the hotel bar, Spencer disappears to his room and Morrissey retreats upstairs soon after. Which means that Gary and Alain have the night to themselves. 

Gary arrives at Alain’s door with his usual armload of alcohol plus a small, crumpled baggie of marijuana. He holds it out for Alain’s inspection with a mixture of pride and twitchy, adolescent paranoia. 

“Don’t tell the others, alright? I got it from one of the lighting techs.” 

And apparently California is the place to go for weed, because Alain feels a soft, buzzing high slip over him after just one hit of the neatly rolled joint that Gary passes him.

“Lovely, Gaz,” he says, choking a little on the smoke and stifling a cough. They’re already on the floor, leaning against the end of the bed with their shoulders touching and knees bumping against each other companionably. Gary reaches down to his denim-clad crotch and adjusts himself, pauses, then raises his hand to Alain’s face and casually brushes a stray lock of hair from his forehead. 

Alain thinks that it might be time to address things. When Gary takes another hit, Alain reaches over and places a hand on his shoulder. 

"Don't let's waste it," he murmurs, and leans in. He feels Gary tense for a second, then relax. Their foreheads bump together as Gary exhales, shotgunning a stream of cooled smoke across Alain’s parted lips. He inhales a little, then abandons the pretense and brings his mouth to Gaz’s. Not really kissing, eyes closed and breathing through their noses, just feeling what it’s like to be this close. Then Gary starts to move, bringing his hands up to Alain’s shoulders and pulling him in and kissing him, mouth open and searching as his fingers dig into the muscles of Alain’s arms. Alain kisses him back, just as fiercely, then pulls himself away. 

“On the bed,” he gasps, and snatches up the joint smoldering on the carpet. It goes onto the table, along with wallet and watch, and then he’s pulling off his shirt and crawling across the bed to Gaz, falling into his arms, grabbing and kissing and wondering why they’ve finally gotten to this point in a hotel room in California, of all places. Gary’s body is heavy and hot and solid, and he makes hungry noises in his throat as he sucks at Alain’s neck. 

This is going to kill me, thinks Alain with shock and joy. He’s blindsided, totally unprepared for the level of need he feels. It’s all so good -- the simple, easy pleasure of their muscled chests pressed flat together, the lovely contrast of Gary’s tattooed forearms next to his naked ones, the way that Gary tugs on his belt buckle and fumbles to unfasten it. 

Then they’re kissing again, and Gary’s gotten both their flies undone and pants shoved out of the way. The heat of his hand, the smooth press and stroke of guitar callused fingertips stroking Alain’s cock is enough to make him groan and feel for something he can fondle in return. There’s a moment of static vertigo when Alain adjusts to the sensation of holding an erection from the wrong angle- and then they’re set with careful, loving hands on each other, kissing and wrapped up in the mirrored sensations that bounce between them in a volley of affection and lust.

There’s a litany of curses and adoring, passionate grunts from Gary as they speed up. Alain wonders if he should be embarrassed, flattered or surprised, and then his eyes fall closed and he only knows that he’s coming, spilling into Gary’s hand at the same moment that Gary’s semen spurts warm and forceful into his palm.

They lay still for a moment, breathing deep, and then Alain feels around for his shirt and gives them both a cursory cleaning up. They fall asleep with the lights on, hands touching.

On the bus to Arizona the next day, they sit across from each other. Gary’s legs are crossed, feet up and resting on the seat next to Alain. He appears to be asleep, but he bumps the sole of his shoe lightly against Alain’s thigh in a pattern too rhythmic to be accidental. Morrissey is reading a book at the far end of the bus near the window, and Spencer rests his head in Boz’s lap and naps on and off as the morning passes into afternoon. When they stop for gas outside Glendale, Gary rises and tousles Alain’s hair with a gentle hand before turning into the aisle. 

And there’s no need to ask how Alain’s doing, because things are truly fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by all the Linder Sterling photos of rockabilly bro cuteness from the Kill Uncle tour, and Alain Whyte's self-confessed fanboy love of the Smiths before he became Morrissey's guitarist and songwriter.


End file.
